Moors, waterfalls, thistles
Mountains spiked with pine trees
In clusters, a verdant floor home
To many, too small to see,
Or too large to approach with
Threats unknown
In the Scottish wild.
It is here where once
I could walk for miles
No soul to be seen
But ghosts to be sensed
Behind the cottages of Glencoe.
Now I return and in the mist
Even the ghosts have gone,
I hear generators and squeals and smell
The grease mingling with the virgin winds
And from afar I see a zip line cutting through the forest
Where the chopped trees lie dead in moss
And mud.
There was nothing here, once
It was priceless
And hard to find
But sadly a man with a dollar
Thought it would be fine
To bring the inane modern world
Away from the heathens
So the Philistines
Can take selfies against the backdrop
Of a McDonalds and swing park
And parking spots
Where the fumes of the petrol lay low
Like dirty rainbows
In the streams.
I turn my back and walk away
Hiking up a hill
With a rucksack
On my back
Now having to rely on memories
As the present steamrolls
Through the beauty
That was once my land.
Categories: Blog, Creative writing, Nature, Poem, Poetry, Uncategorized
A Different Country 
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